Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“It’s easy to feel morally superior to some people,” Stone replied.

She picked up her handbag and walked out.

Dino turned to Stone. “She says they paid the money. Maybe this is going to be all right.”

“She’s lying,” Stone replied. “That’s all they do, these people, is lie and kill. This is going to be a disaster, you wait and see.”

“Ever the optimist,” Dino said.

47

Marjorie Harris arrived at her desk at Manhattan Trust half an hour early, as she usually did. She switched on her computer and opened the wire transfer file. She had prepared a list of transactions that had been ordered too late for the two P.M. deadline the previous day, and now all she had to do was press the send key, verify the instruction twice, and tens of millions of dollars were automatically wire-transferred to banks all over the world in a matter of seconds.

She waited for the confirmations to come back, and, one by one, each transaction was confirmed by a computer in another bank somewhere. Human hands were not involved, though in some cases the instructions were received by fax.

Marjorie, her first duty of the day accomplished, opened the bag from the deli, removed a warm cheese Danish, which was not on her diet, and a black coffee, then turned to the New York Times crossword puzzle. The rest of her day would not begin until she had finished it.

At that same moment, in the Cayman Islands, south of Cuba, Hattie Englander let herself into St. George’s Bank and went to her desk in the wire transfer department. She placed her coffee and ham-and-egg sandwich on her desk, then went to the fax machine, bent over, and removed a stack of faxes that had arrived during the night or earlier that morning.

As she was about to straighten up, she heard a small, chirping sound behind her. She smiled and maintained her position.

“There it is,” Jamie Shields said, running a warm hand over her buttocks. “Shining like the morning sun.” He lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties. “Is it wet this morning?” he asked Hattie.

“You know it is,” she replied, moving to the touch of his hand, then to the touch of something even warmer.

He slid into her from behind. “What a wonderful way to start the day,” he breathed, as he established a rhythm.

Hattie shortly did what she did two or three times a week: She came in a series of snorts and cries, grabbing hold of the fax machine for support. The papers in her hand fell and scattered as Jamie joined her chorus.

Five minutes later, when the other workers began to arrive, Jamie was at his desk at the other end of the room, and Hattie was on her hands and knees, scooping up the stack of faxes that had slipped from her grasp.

“What’s going on?” her boss asked sharply.

“Nothing, Mr. Peterson,” Hattie said, her search interrupted before she could see the single sheet of paper that had landed under the fax machine. “I just dropped the morning faxes.”

“Deal with them at once,” Peterson said grumpily.

“Yes, sir,” Hattie replied, taking her seat at her desk. Coffee would have to wait. She stacked the papers evenly and ran through them quickly. All were copies of transfers wired that morning or during the night from banks around the world. Except one sheet, which was a request for notification. One hour after opening time, she was to fax a number in Switzerland, to report receipt of a transfer of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust in New York. If the funds were received into the St. George’s account, she was to immediately forward them to an account in the Swiss Bank, holding out only the fifty-dollar transfer fee. If the transfer from New York had not arrived, she was to report that fact to the Swiss Bank.

She went through the other sheets again; the transfer had not arrived. She checked her watch: twenty minutes before nine. She opened her coffee. Plenty of time to have breakfast before checking the fax machine again at nine. She began to munch her sandwich and sip her coffee.

At nine o’clock, she checked the fax machine again. A number of other transfers had arrivied, but not the one from Manhattan Trust. She opened a fax form in her computer and typed a short message: “Subject: wire transfer, 750,000 euros, from Manhattan Trust not received. Please inform client.” She moved the cursor to the send button and clicked. This whole business would have been easier if her bosses had completed the computer setup that would handle everything automatically, but they were waiting for the end of the fiscal year to spend the money.

Five minutes later, she received an e-mail from Switzerland. “Please confirm receipt or lack of receipt of Manhattan Trust transfer at your 2:00 p.m. cutoff time.”

Hattie logged in wire transfers all morning, getting hungry as one o’clock passed. She could not have lunch until the two-o’clock cutoff time. At two, she checked the fax machine once more and found it empty. She grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. Then, as she was about to leave, she remembered.

She returned to her desk, checked the transfers once more, then tapped in a message to Switzerland. “Manhattan Trust transfer of 750,000 euros not received this day. Please inform client.” Then she went to lunch.

Marie-Thérèse was having breakfast in her suite at the Carlyle when her cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“Good morning, it’s Dr. von Enzberg, in Zurich,” a deep male voice said.

“Good morning, Dr. von Enzberg,” she replied. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Saint George’s Bank has informed us that the transfer from Manhattan Trust has not been received,” he said. “However, it will almost certainly come later in the morning. I’ve asked them to contact me at their two-p.m. cutoff time, to let me know if it has arrived.”

“Thank you, Dr. von Enzberg,” she said. “I’ll expect your call.” She closed the cell phone and went back to her breakfast. Then she stopped, nervous. She found the sheet of paper Sir Edward had given her and dialed the phone number at the top.